


Bad Romance

by jendavis



Category: Leverage
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis





	Bad Romance

Eliot's used to other guys, but not like this. He knows how they're supposed to touch- or not touch. Aggression and camaraderie and the rest of it. He's been a guy for so long that he doesn't even know the details. He's never had to _think_ about it until now.

It's not that he doesn't want to touch Hardison. It's that he _does_ , and he's got no idea how to go about it. Because it's impossible to deny that it's _Hardison's_ arm wrapped around his shoulder, or that it's been that way for a while now. Pretty much since they clambered out of the cab and set to staggering up towards the house, and tighter since he started listing to the side, digging for his keys.

Hardison's hands are big, his touch spreads wide, heavier than Eliot's used to. He's tall, and not as scrawny as he used to be, but Eliot knows how to deal with bigger guys. He knows how to find an advantage, use their weight, their height against them. But that's not what this is about.

Hardison's weight pressing against him- even like this, when it's just a casual stumble into the kitchen, get the coffee on, sober up, drive home kind of thing that's got Eliot thinking fucked up half-thoughts at four in the morning- it's a different kind of solid. Pliant, but maybe just playing along. Probably too drunk to notice.

It's been there for a while, now, muscle and a sharp hipbone jutting into his side as Eliot regains enough focus to swing them towards the sink. Potential energy that hasn't struck yet, but hasn't started to evade, either.

Too long. Eliot should've fought this off by now.

\---

They're already standing in the kitchen when Alec realizes what he's doing, that he's still touching Eliot, still _way_ too close.

He may even start to panic, so he starts talking, straining for some tangent that had gotten left at the bar somewhere around the fifth round, it's the Vikings and Favre and the bet that he still maintains he didn't lose, and hell, at this point, _he's_ not even listening to himself, and he doubts Eliot is, either.

But Eliot's not telling him to shut up. And his hand is still light on the small of Alec's back like he's forgotten all about it, and Alec is torn.

He doesn't know if he wants Eliot to remember that it's there, or not. Doesn't want to interrupt this _whatever_ they've stumbled into, though he really knows he should. Preferably before getting his ass kicked six ways from Sunday.

He's been _so_ fucking careful about this. And it's not like there's anything special about tonight. They'd pulled off the job, and they'd been the last ones to leave the bar. It's not like _this_ is some magical moment he's been waiting for, turning over in his head for months now. It's just happening.

And he doesn't have the first clue what to do with himself.

Hell, he's still not even sure he doesn't have all this entirely _wrong_. Eliot's smaller than him, and yeah, he can hold his liquor, but they've been matching drink for drink all night long- and Eliot's got a strange sense of humor, anyway- this could all be a setup for something massive, and-

Whatever he's talking about- he's moved on to Sophie's discovery of Parker's growing spoon collection in Nate's kitchen, apparently- Eliot's still laughing. Hasn't even swung once. Yet.

Alec's starting to think that he might just survive the night.

\---

Hardison's still laughing about something Eliot's completely forgotten about. He can feel it reverberating through his shirt, directly into his skin as he contemplates the coffee maker. He'll need both hands to get it going.

Hardison, though, he's grabbing one glass and then another from the drying rack, sets them in the sink and Eliot's got this, he hits the tap, water rushing down, hitting too hard against the sides of the glass and he knows exactly how it must feel, that sudden rush that might upend everything, splashing everywhere.

Part of him is still coiled, prepared to fight Hardison off the moment this gets awkward, but it hasn't happened yet. And there's that something _else_ , coiling along his spine, that would make sense with anyone but _Hardison_.

Except Hardison's a genius, turns off the tap, passes him a glass, takes his own, and leans- it could just be for comedic drunken effect- against him as he drinks.

"Screw the coffee," Eliot hears him mutter. "Too much work for the likes of us."

Eliot nods, downs his own. Hardison's arm is warm against the back of his neck when he tilts his head back to drink, and it's the perfect cover. It's like slight of hand, hiding the small movement inside a more obvious one, shifting slightly closer as he sets the empty glass down.

Hardison doesn't back off, just lets him do it. Resettles his grip like this is something they _do_ , like he's got the right, and who would've thought the guy would be so presumptuous?

"I'm still _far_ too wasted," Hardison mutters, leaning fully against him as he drags them both out into the living room towards the couch. The remote has to be wrestled out from between the cushions, but they manage, half-crashed on each other as the home gym ad blazes into the room, and Eliot wouldn't know what to do, here, but Hardison's got it under control, cracking jokes at the screen, grabbing the remote to find an even more ridiculous infomercial a few channels down.

Eliot's arm is pinned behind Hardison's. If he twists at the elbow, the back of his hand will brush against Hardison's side, and at this point, he's mostly wondering what's stopping him.

\---

Eliot _still_ hasn't pulled back, but it's starting to look a hell of a lot less like a challenge, and more and more like Eliot just doesn't know what to do with himself, let alone with Alec.

He really should've gone home several hours ago. Said that he'd pick up his car in the morning. Because this is starting to look severely contrived, like it's something he planned, and honestly, he's just going with the flow, here, he doesn't know what's coming next.

He's drunk. Eliot's drunk. And apparently, Eliot's _friendly_ , when he's drunk. Relaxed to the point of hilarity, but Alec's not about to start laughing, not at this. Eliot's letting him get this close, and Alec's not sure it'll ever happen again.

He's not sure when he started thinking about this in terms of _getting it right_.

Because if Alec doesn't get his shit together- _fast_ \- Eliot's exactly the kind of person who, when freaking out, will do so _loudly_. Who won't let it just end here. He'll keep it on the down-low, yeah, but it'll be there, double meanings on the comms, barbs that no-one else will pin down as being anything other than ordinary, blazing into Alec's brain.

Because things aren't always this good between them, and they're _never_ this seamless.

But Eliot could've shaken him off a while ago.

And if it wasn't for that, Alec would've backed off. Staggered on his own towards the couch to pass out, listened to Eliot head up the stairs to his room. He's seen Eliot say up for sixty hours straight on jobs _before_ taking on a platoon of Marines on his own.

Eliot could break his arm in his sleep, if he wanted to.

The fact that he might not _want_ to is a precipice all on its own.

\---

There's some old movie on the television, some woman arguing with a man in a fedora, but Eliot's barely watching it.

Instead, he's thinking that he's really not sure about getting fucked, which is unfortunate, because somewhere in the past few seconds, he and Hardison have started kissing, and it's probably something he shouldn't have missed. He doesn't even know who started it, reaches back, tries to remember, and all that he can come up with is that when he moved, Hardison was already there.

Hardison's got one hand pressed to the side of Eliot's head, now, behind his ear, holding him in place, and it's not even a proper grip, he could be out of here in an instant. The moment he lets go of Hardison's side, he could be across the room, out the door.

Only he's not moving any way but closer, his fingers skirting up to edge along Alec's shoulder blade. He wants to know what it looks like, if it's as great as it feels, the muscles tensing and rolling under his hand as Hardison shifts, twists his head, finds a better position, eases them both back down onto the couch.

He can smell Hardison's sweat, now, maybe a little soap or aftershave. Whatever it is, Eliot wants it, wants to see the sweat running down his back as he grabs Hardison's hips and thrusts into him. The thought- of _fucking_ Alec Hardison- sends him reeling all over again, and he shoves Hardison's head aside to trace along the side of his throat, salty skin, tendons, bone underneath.

Hardison hums in impatient contentment, and maybe it would be louder if Eliot slid down to his knees, started sucking him off. He's not sure it's a good idea, yet, but the thought isn't sending him reeling like it was a few minutes ago. It's not submission if Hardison crashes first.

But then Hardison's legs grind between his own, and Eliot doesn't care anymore. There are a dozen ways Eliot knows to flip them both, a hundred ways he could get out of this, but he doesn't know how to get _closer_. He just grabs Hardison's shoulders and thrusts back up to meet him.

\---

Eliot's got a stranglehold on his shoulders, but he's keeping too close for Alec to pull back and get a good look at his face and his movements are a bit manic. He's fighting his way through this, and though he's not _fighting this_ , Alec gets it. He's been there.

He could stop this, or he could distract Eliot. He pushes himself up, back, and push-pulls at the hem of Eliot's shirt until he catches on. By the time Eliot gets it off, Alec's own is on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, and he'd be worried about the fact that Eliot isn't looking him in the eye if he weren't so obviously checking out his chest.

Alec thinks he'd be okay with becoming an exhibitionist, if the look in Eliot's eyes was the guaranteed result.

And Eliot's upping the ante, here, hooking his fingers into his waistband, just dragging at the skin there, and he's tugging insistently, thumb worrying at the button fly. It's invitation enough for Alec to sweep his hands down Eliot's chest, brushing over his stomach, lower now, but he can't stop himself from pressing against Eliot's cock before undoing the zipper.

Eliot inhales, sharp and fast, his fingers twitch against Alec's skin, and this is going to be _so_ much better, in a minute.

\---

 _Fuck_ , Hardison's gorgeous, and if he doesn't _move_ already, this is going to be over before it even gets started. Eliot bats Hardison's hands out of the way, starts shoving his jeans down but the going is awkward.

It's almost funny, the way they're both trying to keep kissing as they undress, but it beats breaking apart and having a chance to think. He's pretty sure, when they're kneeling on the couch again, that Hardison would overbalance if Eliot moved his shoulder, truth be told, that contact point is all that's holding _either_ of them up, so it's an uncoordinated chain of fits and starts before they're lying down again.

Hardison lets him slide a knee between his own, grinds back against him as Eliot bites his shoulder, but then there's a hand in his hair and his throat's being bared and he can feel his breath against his collar before another kiss comes, and Hardison's pushing over him again, and it's a stupid thing, but it's taken until _now_ for this to feel insanely real, and he's jerking back, away, trying to re-close the gap before Hardison catches on, but it's too late.

\---

 _Easy now._

There's an instant where Alec's not sure, but Eliot's dragging him down, tongue-to-teeth. He's not actually trying to get away, but something spooked him, and if Alec gets this wrong, it'll be over before it even gets started.

Alec knows damned well that he might be setting some sort of precedent, here, but he's figuring _this_ version of Eliot out. It's a fair trade. He shifts to the side, dragging Eliot with him until he catches on, manhandling the both of them until their positions are reversed.

When he makes room for Eliot's hips in between his legs, the friction is enough to make him stop thinking at all. Eliot's got one arm braced against his shoulder, pressing them down as he pushes himself up to _finally_ stare down at him, eyes wide, seeing everything.

"You good?"

"Hell yeah," he'd be embarrassed about how out of breath he sounds, but his legs are already spread and Eliot's other hand is wrapping around his dick, stroking experimentally. Down, tight, a little looser on the upstroke, down again, fingers twisting. When he looks down, it's almost over for him, right there, and then Eliot laughs, surprised.

This is all about turnabout, anyway, and he's watching Eliot's face so it takes him a second of fumbling, but then Eliot's dick is heavy in his hand, slick at the tip, makes it easy to force Eliot's eyes closed as he lists forward.

Eliot's forehead's pressed against his own, there's not much else to see with his hair falling over his face. It's almost too close, to dark to see but Eliot's brow is furrowed, his mouth's fallen open just inches from Alec's. He could kiss him now, but it's more fun to wait. More fun to thumb along the ridge, up to the crown, feel him shudder against his chest.

And it's a lot more fun when they get the hang of each other's wrists, stumble into something like a rhythm. Eliot's found a tighter grip that's got the base of his spine singing out, and responds best to a lighter touch, as long as it's fast.

He groans, though, holds his breath when Alec's fingers press hard against his base, enough that Alec's going to wonder if he could make him come just by holding him there long enough. When Eliot does the same to him, though, there's no more time for thought, the wave's coming in.

\---

Alec's breathing is shallow, almost gasping, and it's hotter than when a girl gets gone like this. Another few strokes, and he's trying to say something. The words aren't coming, but Alec is, eyes squeezed tight like he's bracing against an explosion, but it's quiet, hard to track, Eliot feels it more than anything.

There's a moment there, afterwards, where he wonders if he should stop, if Hardison's just done, and that's fine, it's cool, but Eliot can finish himself off. The second he rises, though, Hardison's eyes are snapping open, batting his hands away and grabbing his hips to hold him there.

He shouldn't be this fucking close, shouldn't be this turned on by the almost angry look in his eyes as he shoves Eliot back up until he's kneeling and has to straddle Hardison's hips just to stay up. He's off balance, like this, and he doesn't know where to put his hands, but Hardison's stroking him again, fast and light but getting rougher, his other hand open on his thigh, the thumb just brushing against his balls, and he's fucking _close_

-

\---

Eliot's face has gone slack. His mouth is open, so are his eyes- they're burning into him but Alec doesn't know that they're seeing anything, and it's not important. He's got Eliot on a precarious edge, right now, his shoulders keep twitching, his hands clenching on his thighs. His breath catches, then releases just as he starts to spill. It's hot on Alec's stomach, cooling rapidly, but then there's more and Eliot looks _good_ , like this, shocks going up his spine like he's forgotten to hold himself together. And through it all, Eliot's still staring, even as Alec spreads one arm to the side, pulls him back down.

He strokes a few more times, spiking the aftershocks, but after a moment Eliot sinks too completely against him to keep it up.

In a minute, they'll be extricating themselves, finding something to wipe off with, and he'll have to figure out if he's allowed to stay, or if there's room in Eliot's bed. Eliot's shifting again, though, wrapping an arm heavily against Alec's chest, so it's looking pretty hopeful.

"You'd better still be too drunk to drive home," Eliot mutters.

"Huh?" Alec has never been more sober in his entire life, and he knows that Eliot can feel him tensing.

"'Cause I'll just have to follow you, and I'm too lazy to put my pants on first."

Alec can't stop grinning. _Damn, I am good_.

"Quit gloating," Eliot mutters, rolling his eyes as he pushes himself up, just far enough to kiss the smirk off Alec's face.


End file.
